


The Portrait of Kostya Bocharov

by Tsifrovoy_Sombrucio_Ten



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Kostya Bocharov, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde, melovin - Fandom
Genre: (and yes there will be smut eventually - I know how you sinners are), (not at the same time thankfully), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood and Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, I mean don't get me wrong I know some people are into that, Smut, Tags Subject to Change, but it's better to ease a fandom into the REALLY kinky shit, instead of just shoving them into it like a frat boy at a pool party
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-12 03:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsifrovoy_Sombrucio_Ten/pseuds/Tsifrovoy_Sombrucio_Ten
Summary: He was beautiful, yes.He was talented, of that there was no doubt.Indeed, he seemed to be admired wherever he chose to go.He could have had anyone he wanted - yet it was you he’d turned his eye upon. Truly, it seemed like fate had finally sent you a blessing in the form of this handsome youth; one who would sweep you off your feet and give you a better life.But blessings and curses are separated by a razor-thin line. And little did you know, you were soon to be balancing upon it.





	1. That's Your Role

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kostyaaas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kostyaaas/gifts), [BlackKoshka23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackKoshka23/gifts), [Lovethek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovethek/gifts).



> Some people may ask me, “Sombrucio, did you really spend three days reading a gay disaster of a classical novel, and then several hours afterward researching dark Romanticist literature, historical theatre blood effects, and Greek and Shakespearean tragedies JUST to be able to write reader insert fanfiction involving a Ukranian pop star at the behest of your new group of fandom friends?” 
> 
> And to these people, I just have one thing to say:  
>  _Go big or go home._

The little theater was packed to the rafters; though that did not say much. It was always packed when the troupe did one of the more ‘bloodthirsty’ plays.

And _Titus Andronicus_ was plenty bloodthirsty - quite literally if one took the events of Act Five into account.

You peeked through the ragged curtain at the numerous people filling the rickety seats. A lot of them were loudly hooting and jeering with one another. Several were already quite intoxicated, and those that weren’t were inevitably on their way there as the concession girls weaved among them; dodging the handsier men and foisting drinks and the like on them in exchange for coins and wrinkled bills.

You could only sigh. This theater wasn’t one of the grand affairs in the heart of the city; where fashionable members of high society sat in richly gilded boxes and partook of beautiful operas - it was a little rundown place near the docks that served the working class and smelled like herring more often than not.

Still, you could have forgiven the shabbiness. But the patrons…

The owner of this place was a very shrewd businessman; he knew what the men and women who worked day in and day out wanted. They did not want to see beautiful things; did not want to be whisked away on an emotional journey - they wanted simple gore and farce to make them forget their “drab, wretched lives, if only for a single evening.”

They did not want Wagner and Dumas; they wanted Chaucer and Poe. They wanted Sweeney Todd, not Edmond Dantès. _The Comedy of Errors_ , not _The Tragedy of Medea_.

You supposed you could understand. People who struggled all day and night to survive did not want to be reminded of how terrible an existence that was; they wanted something fun and exciting to cheer them. To help them get to the next day a little easier.

Though in your opinion,  it was the tragic things that made one appreciate the joyous moments in life all the more…

...at least you think that’s how it went, you admit you couldn’t recall the exact line. Something like that, though, that you’d read somewhere.

At any rate, your lines tonight were more important to remember, anyway. You were slated to play Tamora; the Queen of the Goths whose quest for revenge against Titus is what set the whole story into motion.

You’d been working on your reaction for the big dinner scene in the final act all week. It would be a shame to let it go to waste now.

You shot one final look over the crowd, about to pull back when something caught your eye (and your breath in your throat) that you hadn’t noticed before.

One of the private balcony boxes held a pale young man; dark-haired (and dressed in clothes just as black to match); looking somewhat boredly over the edge of the balcony as he waited for the show to start.

He was handsome, certainly, but there was something curious about his eyes...was it just a trick of the dim lighting, or did one of them appear to be white…?

Also curious was that he was alone in the box. The owner didn’t just let a seat go unfilled unless someone paid him for it. Whoever he was, he must have been quite wealthy to be able to afford solitude like that. But then, if he could easily afford that; then why was he here at your troupe’s little theater and not at one of the shows in town, then?

You didn’t have much time to dwell on the mysterious stranger, though. Cries for actors to get to their marks went out around the backstage, and you had to quickly tear yourself away to get to your place before the curtain went up.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

The show went off without too much of a hitch - there was a moment of unintentional chaos when the blood used in the final scene caused Saturninus and Lucius to slip and fall in the process of attempting to kill each other, but apparently that just added a touch of realism to the drama based on the audience reactions. Plenty of gasps and even a few shrieks (though you had to say those were less horrified and more delighted). 

Otherwise there were no other mishaps - no one forgot their lines or marks; which was impressive given how the man playing Bassianus was always slow with hitting his in rehearsals.

And you, you played your role as Tamora perfectly - from fallen queen turned prisoner of war; to bereaved and vengeful mother; to cunning lover of Aaron the arrogant Moor; and at last to a disturbed (if unintentional) cannibal.

You couldn’t help but smile slightly just before the curtain dropped to a fine outcry of cheering and applause - though you had lost sight of the young man who had first caught your attention before the show. Perhaps he was not as entertained by the bloodsport as everyone else had been and had left early. Unfortunate since he had been so unusual, but at the same time you couldn’t blame him.

As you made your way through the maze of the backstage; you frowned as you saw some of your other co-stars (as well as some hovering stagehands) huddled near the door to the large green room-slash-dressing room that many of you shared; most still in costume and not going in.

What was going on?

As you got closer, you could hear the arguing that had no doubt attracted a few of the bystanders, at least.

“For god’s sake, Reg, let us in already! I’m sticky and this mess stinks something fierce, and I don’t even know why you’re keeping us all out here in the first place!”

“The fuck you don’t, I saw you eyin’ it soon as you stepped back here to change after you were carried offstage to be buried with Daddy Titus there. Good thing I was on break when I was.”

“Ugh, you’re overreacting!”

“Not when I know how you goddamned little divas are! If it wasn’t for me, you all would’ve squabbled over it and claimed it for yourselves. So ain’t a one’ve you goin’ in ‘til she does first.”

“You don’t even know it was for her. It actually _could_ be meant for one of us!”

“...ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer but ain’t stupid, either. Pretty obvious it’s for her.”

Carefully weaving your way through the small crowd, you find the single door to the dressing room blocked by a rather coarse-looking girl with long dark braided hair leaning up against it, a lit cigarette dangling between two fingers.

The other girl she was arguing with was one of the newest additions to the troupe - you hadn’t learned her name yet, but she had been on stage alongside you as Lavinia, and sure enough; was still in her bloodstained costume too. Though she had since regained use of her hands and was using them to gesture just as wildly as she had done on stage without them.

But at least you knew the coarse one - it was Regan; one of the concession girls.

She rolls her eyes at the Lavinia, but when she spots you, a crooked grin flashes across her features.

“Ah, now here’s the lady’ve the hour. See, all you had to do was be patient.”

Regan had been pretty enough to be an actress once...but a long scar that slashed horizontal across her right cheek had put an end to her days on the stage.

No one knew exactly what happened - she told a different story every time someone asked - but the prevailing rumor around the theater was that her taste for dangerous men had finally soured in a particularly nasty way.

Girls who weren’t pretty enough to act anymore and weren’t just straight up given the boot were usually put on concession duty to make extra cash for the theater. Still “earning their keep” as the owner claimed. So now Regan spent her days smoking and drinking just as much product as she sold.

Rumors also abounded why that didn’t get her thrown out when it would have put any of the rest of them out of a job. But then again, the venue owner could be considered a little ‘dangerous’ too, and you didn’t have to play the part of Pythagoras to do the math there.

“...What’s for me?” You couldn’t help but ask, as Regan finally stepped aside; unable to resist a little dramatic flourish in the form of a mock bow as she did.

“You’ll see.”

That only raised more questions, but you were quick to see *exactly* what the scarred girl was talking about as soon as you turned the door’s handle.

Upon the table immediately across from the door - fittingly enough, the very same one where you had prepared yourself to play Tamora - there lay a single rose.

Not one of the false paper ones frequently sold to the audience along with the concessions; no; this was quite real. Petals and thorns and everything.

You picked it up carefully, only then realizing that its scent was overwhelmed by something much darker and stronger; a lingering perfume that seemed to be tied to a handwritten note left with the rose in question.

_  
For My Queen -_

_Your performance tonight was so moving,_  

_that whatever meager words I could attempt to write here_

_could not possibly do it justice._

_  
However I will manage to say this:_

_I can only hope there will be more to follow._  

_  
-Regards,_

_Your Prince Charming_

  
Your eyes ran over the words over and over again; your heart racing and head swimming with shock, or perhaps it was the perfume, or even both. You did not even notice the other players as they shuffled in; going through the processes of changing out of costume and cleaning off makeup - did not even notice the haughty look that the Lavinia girl shot you as she pushed past. 

_Prince Charming..._

You had absolutely no proof it was him…

...but the image of the dark stranger with the strange eyes immediately came to your mind.


	2. Covered By Roses

The moment the thought crossed your mind, however, doubt intercepted, seized, and flung it right back to pierce through the haze of excitement and drop you back to reality.

No, no. The idea was ridiculous.

Why would someone like him be interested in someone like you? It was harsh, perhaps, but it was true for just about anyone of the high society set. The upper class wanted nothing to do with the common and working ones if they could help it.

You had no titles, no secret abundance of wealth or lost noble blood in your veins, at least not to your knowledge. Sure, you had an aptitude for acting, perhaps, but...but this was like something out of one of the very plays you starred in; which made it all the more unbelievable.

Your co-star could have been right: maybe it wasn’t actually meant for you? Even if there was no way it could have been for anyone else; it still didn’t make much sense.

Still...it was...certainly a nice gesture. It’d been a while since anyone had done something like this for you, if at all. But despite the hope for more mentioned in the note; you told yourself it was unlikely to happen again.

You weren’t just trying to keep yourself from being disappointed - you were actually quite logically convinced of it. If the theatre’s usual clientele didn’t scare him off; the owner no doubt would with his insufferable avarice. There was no telling what he’d charge ‘Prince Charming’ for the ‘privilege’ of admission once word of this admiration thing got to him (if it hadn’t already - half the troupe and staff were his extra sets of eyes and ears).

And again, all of this didn’t even take into account whether the mysterious dark young man was actually your admirer in question or not.

No. It was a lovely thought, but life was not like the stories and plays you all put on.

Even if it was nice to dream it was.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

And yet.

The next week.

Another show. Another rose. Another note.

This one was a magnificent specimen of botany - petals that alternated between a red so dark it looked almost black and a white as bright as sunlight gleaming off fresh snow. You could not even begin to imagine how difficult it must have been to grow such a thing.

_For My Queen -_

_  
In the tragedy of Man, the Conqueror Worm may be the hero, _

_But whether you appear in light or darkness,_

_You are the true heroine of mine_

_  
-Prince Charming _

(Despite his claim that he could never quite use words to properly honor you like you so deserved, he was clearly poetic enough when he wanted to be.)

It almost certainly had to have been chosen due to your dual role that night. The troupe had done an adaption of _Ligeia_ , and as Rowena’s original actress had suddenly taken ill (you TOLD her that this wasn’t a good month for oysters), you got to play both parts so as to save time (and no doubt money).

It had rattled your nerves a bit since it had been sprung on you just the day before, and there’d been such a rush to learn another set of lines and marks and with a costume change to boot...you didn’t even think you’d done that well. By the time you finally shed the wrappings to reveal your transformation from the fair Rowena back to dark Ligeia, most of the audience seemed half-asleep.

But he certainly seemed to have liked it.

After that, no matter the show - no matter if it was a juvenile comedy or a bloody tragedy - he always left a rose and a note; always addressing you as his Queen; always signed as Prince Charming.

And those were not always the only gifts he left. A production of _Antigone_ that had been a complete disaster and was met not even halfway through with wild booing (and that was a lucky reaction - poor Creon’s actor got a nasty lump on his head from a bottle someone threw) still got you rewarded with a pair of fine silver coins.

_  
A token to pay old ferryman Charon - _

_In hopes that the gods may appreciate your noble efforts_

_More in death than they did in life._

  
Given how furious the owner was after the number of refunds he had to hand out that night that he started docking pay left and right; at least one of those coins would keep you well fed until the storm of his anger had passed.

Then, after a particularly emotionally taxing performance as Ophelia during a dismal week of running _Hamlet_ , and the nonstop rain that had almost dumped enough water on stage via the leaking roof to *actually* drown yourself in; you were left a jet black bottle of what had to be the same perfume that he used for his notes.

_  
Maybe you have not yet been driven mad _

_By the scent of violets withered and forgotten_

_But you have certainly instilled madness in me._

  
You had since added it along with the other gifts and notes at your bedside table...and now the faintest trace of the scent seemed to influence your very dreams; filling them with intense visions of the dark stranger and his fascinatingly mismatched eyes.

Everyone in the troupe wanted to know who your admirer was, but even you couldn’t tell them who he was. And not just because you didn’t even know his name.

Sure, you had your (very strongly supported) theories. But no proof - not your own or anyone else’s. Not a soul had ever been able to catch him in the act of leaving the gifts, and not for lack of trying on the part of some of the other girls, too.

Some of them were jealous and no doubt wanted to see if they could ‘intercept’ him for themselves...others were just curious and excited by the romantic mystery of it all.

And ever since that first night you saw him in one of the balcony boxes; despite checking every evening before you were set to perform; you never seemed to manage to find him in the audience again. Every now and then you thought you saw a flash of those eyes; a glimpse of that raven-black hair or pale features...but as soon as you looked again they seemed to have vanished into the usual mass of rough workmen and tired women.

Strange when he had stood out so distinctly the first time, but perhaps he chose to hide himself now that he was leaving these tokens for you. Was he shy? Afraid of being singled out for his potential wealth? Or just a hopeless romantic?

You had so many questions about the identity of your Prince Charming, but never any answers.

Perhaps you never would.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

The off-season was coming.

Apart from one show during Christmas week (and it was always a small house for Dickens - even with a happy ending that man’s stories were just _utterly_ depressing), the theatre was always closed up for winter.

You doubted it was out of any actual goodwill towards the employees and their desires to be with family and loved ones during the holidays so much as it was more shrewd business sense - most of your patrons didn’t desire to try and brave the bitter ice and cold to get to the theatre.

In fact, the only reason you were even here was due to...well, the fact that you lived here, since you rented one of the rooms above the the theatre itself.

And at least the off-season meant you’d have the place almost entirely to yourself. It was always nice to sleep in; to not have to run rehearsals; not dealing with all the day-in and day-out maintenance of costumes and makeups and rigging...just enjoying the quiet of the large place.

(Apparently the owner didn’t even like to stick around during the winter - preferred some place he had uptown, or so Regan had said...though how *she* of all people knew that...actually, perhaps you didn't want to know.)

For all its faults; even if it wasn’t the grandest, or the best-kept, and the rent was outrageous...it was home.

To your surprise, however, as soon as you got up and prepared for a quiet day alone; you opened the door to find the theatre owner already waiting for you outside your room.

Now, the owner was a short, dark-haired man with large, unblinking eyes that were uncomfortably reminiscent of a lizard’s. If that and his penchant for near immoral business practices were not bad enough, one of his more ‘charming’ personality traits was that he never quite smiled - it was more like he always managed some variation of a smirk or a sneer.

So to find him standing there and positively grinning was nothing short of terrifying to say the least.

“...oh god. Who died?”

He laughs, though it sounds more like a maniacal sort of cackle “Ha HA, oh, so very witty. I think I will miss that most of all. No. There’s someone here to see you, my dear. Someone who has offered to buy out your contract for *far* more than it was worth. So when you meet him, do remember to thank him, won’t you?”

Alarm bells immediately started going off in your head. You’d heard rumors of this sort of thing from some of the older girls who had been working at other shows before finding their way to this one - it was basically the polite way of saying someone was being pimped out for extra cash. Something you absolutely did not think the theatre owner was above doing.

Of course times had occasionally been hard for you; this wasn’t exactly a lucrative life, but it had never gotten so bad as to require you to do...that.

You were already certain of the worst case scenario and considering your options of how to get out of this - you could easily have your things packed and be out before either of them knew, but you decided to play along so as not to arouse suspicion. At least for now.

That didn’t stop you from trying to pry answers out of him in the interim, though.

“And just who is he? Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Why, I’m surprised, you of all people should know him better than anybody. And I’m telling you now, _obviously._ Now, come on, I don’t like to keep my customers waiting.”

Well that blatant lie was proof that this could mean nothing good. But you were given no time to even prepare a response before the owner ushered you out of your room; practically *bouncing* the entire way down the hall.

Utterly horrifying.

You tried to quell the panic that were threatening to show. You hadn’t had jitters like this since your very first night on stage. Most of the men who came calling at the theater wouldn’t have paid a sum like this - a night with one of the actresses who turned tricks on the side, maybe, but buying out a whole contract?

But then again, how many of them would rather spend the coin to burn the ‘midnight oil’ and let their children starve while they languished in the opium pits instead, too?

By the time he’d finally brought you down to the dressing room; your outer demeanor was quite calm and collected, but it was only the skills you’d honed as an actress that made it so. Inside, you were shaking fit to shatter; preparing yourself to bolt; preparing for the worst; you’d be blacklisted for sure but it was worth it to save your dignity, wasn’t it? You would not be rendered a common whore no matter how desperate or how rich the offer was-

“At last we properly meet, my Queen.”

The theatre owner has to nudge you through the doorway. Your shock had you frozen to the spot.

“Here she is. I’m surprised you wished to meet in person...I expected more of those silly little notes you’ve been leaving.”

You weren’t listening to his backhanded compliments and oily flatteries. You weren’t really listening at all, to be quite honest.

In fact, you weren’t even sure if you were breathing anymore.

You knew him as soon as you saw him; even before he turned around to reveal those piercing eyes, and no, it had not been a trick of the light that night - one was indeed a deep blue and the other a brilliant white.

Tall, and pale, and darkly dressed, with those artistically sharp features. The image that had haunted your dreams for so long now.

But this was no phantasm; no ghost living in the mingling scents of rose and chocolate and romantic calling cards. This was indeed real, as he bowed his head respectfully towards you, taking your hand with a smile.

"Konstantyn Bocharov. But you may call me Kostya."

Your Prince Charming...had finally come at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of research I keep putting into this is excessive, I swear, but I got lost in a rabbithole of 19th century theater.
> 
> (And yes, certain-persons-who-will-not-be-named, I will spell it the American way in my author notes. Fite me. ilu.)
> 
> Anyway, this is getting interesting, isn't it? Can't wait to see where this goes~

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written anything like this before and actually, y'know, publicly shown it to people. I was SO nervous about posting just this chapter and technically nothing sketchy happens in it! 
> 
> Probably shows, too, hhhhhHHHH I have never actually so much as dipped a toe into the RPF waters before in my life yet here I am diving in headfirst with this. What am I doing with my life.
> 
> But goddamn it...my nerves and feelings aside, I love this fandom. I can't NOT thank them somehow for helping me improve my outlook on life.
> 
> So when people said they wanted a Dorian Gray AU...well, my gothic and horror-loving ass just couldn't pass up the opportunity, even if it meant creating a whole new AO3 account to post it on.


End file.
